


Probie Snapshots

by kel_1970



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Child Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kel_1970/pseuds/kel_1970
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone was a probie, once. Formative moments from the probie year of each member of 51's A-shift. One chapter per guy. Rated T for language and, in some chapters, scary situations. Warnings will appear in chapter notes as warranted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Johnny: "Probie Down!"

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. When characters share a name with the actor who played them, all references are to the character, not the actor. Public figures are used fictionally.

Chapter 1

Johnny: “Probie down!”

 

 

I knew I was in trouble long before I hit the ground. Before I even started falling, actually, I already knew something was wrong. I just didn't have any idea how it happened, though.

I mean, I was just going up a _ladder_ , for cryin' out loud. Sure, I had a pike pole in one hand, but I was sliding it up the rail as I went, never letting go. Three points of contact with the ladder at all times, just like they taught us at the academy. Just like I'd done a thousand times in the last nine months.

But suddenly, most of the way up to the second floor—bam. My feet just weren't on the rungs any more, and my hands lost their grip on the rails at the same time. Actually, the “bam” part didn't come till a few seconds later, when I found myself layin' in the grass, stunned but not actually knocked out, lookin' up at the tall wooden ladder.

“Probie's down!” someone shouted. Boots appeared in my field of vision.

“You okay, Gage?”

Eric Brainard, who was supposed to follow me up the ladder to work on ripping the ceiling down in the upstairs room I'd been headed to, towered over me.

I took a quick inventory. Everything moved that was s'posta move, and nothing did that wasn't. My ass would have a terrific bruise later, and my pride was already pretty much history.

“Yeah.” I sat up and tried to collect myself. “Yeah. No major damage.”

“What the fuck?” Brainard said. “Falling off a _ladder_? You were going up, speedy as always, and then—bam! What the hell happened?”

I shook my head. “I have absolutely no idea,” I admitted. “It was like, all of a sudden, I didn't know where my hands and feet were any more.”

“And last shift—the thing with dropping the saw?”

I winced. “Yeah, that was pretty bad. Lucky the chain brake was still on.”

Brainard shook his head. “Man, you better hope Cap is in a good mood today. 'Cause you know I gotta tell 'im about this.”

“Yeah,” I said glumly. “C'mon; let's go get that ceiling down before it flares up again.”

~!~!~!~

I was dreading what I knew was coming when we got back to the station. Brainard didn't help any, either.

“Waaaait for it …” he said under his breath, as the truck backed into the station and the engineer shut the engine off.

I was waiting.

“Probie! In my office!” Captain Sharp bellowed.

Shit. I followed Cap into his tiny office.

“Siddown,” he ordered.

I sat down, as ordered, and winced as my bruised hindquarters hit the wooden seat.

“What the fuck?” he said, getting straight to the point as usual. “This is the second shift in a row that you did some clumsy thing or another. When you first started, I thought you'd be one of the best probies I ever had. But now? Hell, Gage; you're nine months through your probie year and I don't even know what the hell is happening.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You're not working another job on the side, are you? Showing up for shifts on no sleep?”

“Nossir.” And I wasn't. I was tired all the time anyhow, though, so I might as well have been. Woulda helped with the rent.

“Then what the fuck?” he repeated.

I didn't have a great answer, so I just repeated what I'd said to Brainard. “It just kinda seemed like all of a sudden I couldn't tell where my hands and feet were. Or maybe they weren't doing what I thought. I dunno.”

Sharp squinted at me again. “You don't look sick, or hurt—which is a miracle, 'cause Brainard said you actually bounced when you hit the ground. But I want you to get checked out by the department doc—today. Now, in fact.”

“But I—”

“Now!” Cap said. “What's with this 'but I' bullshit? You know better than that. Now scram—you're off for the rest of the shift. I'll call HQ and tell 'em to squeeze you in with the doc today.”

“Yessir,” I said. No point in arguing. I went to my locker to grab a couple things, since I probably wasn't going to be back for the rest of the shift. Brainard saw me there, and his jaw dropped.

“He _canned_ you? Just for _that_?”

“Huh?” I guess it musta looked like I was cleaning out my locker. “Naw. He's just sending me down to see the doc at HQ. Just to make sure there's nothing wrong with me or anything.”

“Oh,” Brainard said. “I guess that makes sense. Well, I hope there isn't.”

“Yeah, me too.”

~!~!~!~

I sat in the waiting room for a long time, until someone finally called my name.

“Gage?”

I jumped up, and winced as something shifted and cracked. Hip? Back? I couldn't even tell. I followed the doc back to the exam room. I remembered him—he gave me a real hard time at my new recruit physical—didn't believe I was telling the truth about my age. I had my driver's license, my birth certificate, my high school diploma, my childhood immunization records—the works. He finally didn't have a choice but to believe that I was actually over eighteen. Otherwise, I passed with flying colors. I hoped he didn't remember me—maybe he'd seen enough new recruits in the year since he and I last crossed paths that he'd forgotten all about me.

“So you're what, all of nineteen now?” he asked, reading through my chart.

“And a half,” I added, before I realized how childish that sounded. “I mean, I'll be twenty in a couple months.”

“And your captain sent you here because …”

I was confused. “Uh, didn't he say? I dropped a saw last shift, and then today, I fell off a ladder—mosta the way up to the second floor. He wants to know why I got so clumsy all of a sudden.”

“All right,” the doc said. “Calm down. I just wanted to hear it in your own words.” He looked me over. “Anything else going on that strikes you as unusual?”

I thought about what Cap had asked about me maybe moonlighting. “I'm pretty tired all the time, even though I think I get plenty of sleep. And sometimes I wake up, with pains in my legs,” I admitted. Great. It was probably gonna turn out to be a brain tumor, or leg cancer, or something like that.

“Stand up for me, will you?”

I stood up, and adjusted my trousers at the waist, out of habit. He scanned me up and down, his eyes pausing at the gap between the hem of my pants and my duty boots.

“Boots off, and up on the scale, please,” he said.

I followed his instructions. He adjusted the weights, but I couldn't see what they said, since he had me with my back to the scale, as he adjusted the height measuring thingy till it sat on top of my head.

“Okay, you can hop down, and strip to your shorts, please. I just want to look you over, and make sure nothing's broken from that fall.”

“Just my pride,” I said, as I stripped. “Unless you can break your ass. Which is where I landed.”

He looked me over, mercifully making the inspection of my bruised rear quick. “Yep, you're gonna have some mighty interesting bruises in a few hours. Now I want to see you touch your toes, and hold it there,” he said. I did so, and he traced his fingers down my backbone.

“All right,” he said. “Let's see your arms out straight in front of you.”

I followed his instructions, still not having a clue what he was looking for.

“Okay. You can get dressed.” He made a couple notes in my chart as I put my uniform back on again.

“So what's the verdict, Doc?”

“The verdict, Mr. Gage, is that a year ago, you were five feet nine inches tall, and weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. This very second, your height is six feet and one half inch, and you weigh only five pounds more. It seems,” he said, looking at me with raised eyebrows, “that you've had a bit of a growth spurt. Which could account for everything that's been going on.”

“Uh,” I said intelligently. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “It happens. I'm just surprised you didn't notice. Look at your pants, for crying out loud.”

I knew perfectly well my pants were too short. “I just thought they shrank, or something.” I shook my head. “Geez. Three and a half inches? I guess I haven't really been paying attention.”

“Or eating, it seems,” he said.

“Aw, c'mon, Doc! I eat like a horse! Constantly! The guys at the station won't quit buggin' me about it either.”

“Well,” he said, “you're going to have to step it up a bit. Do you drink milk?”

“Not really,” I said. “I thought it was kinda for kids.”

“At _least_ half a gallon of whole milk a day, Gage. And it's for kids because they're _growing_. Which is exactly what you're doing, apparently.”

“Who'd'a thought,” I said. “So is that why I'm so clumsy all of a sudden?”

“Probably. And your captain described you as 'a cross between a jackrabbit and a greyhound,' so I'd suggest maybe you should slow down to, say, human speed for a little while, as your brain gets used to where your hands and feet actually are, instead of where they used to be.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“And when you're not on shift, try to sleep more. And eat a lot more.”

I couldn't help thinking of my thin wallet. “I'll try.” It would get a little thicker—not much, but a bit—in a couple months, when I finished my probie year. _If_ I finished my probie year.

“Uh, Doc?”

“Uh huh?” he replied, as he scribbled something on a pad.

“You think I'm done?”

“Growing? Probably close to it,” he said. “I want to see you back in three months, for a weight and height check. My guess is you might get another half inch or so, but your hands and feet look like they fit the rest of you pretty well. Speaking of which—you obviously need new uniform pants. Do your boots fit?”

I wiggled my toes. “Mostly,” I said. They were darned tight, but I'd gotten used to it. And it didn't really matter, because we only get one set of boots a year anyhow, and I wasn't quite due yet.

“Which I take to mean 'no.' All right—these things happen. Don't worry about your uniform allowance—the department makes an exception in cases like these. I'll just give you this note—” he tore a page off the prescription pad he'd been scrawling on and handed it to me— “and you should be all set. Make sure to swap your turnout gear for a couple sizes up, too. I don't want to see you back here with burned wrists from a coat with sleeves that are too short.”

“Nossir. Uh, what do I say to my Cap? He's none too pleased with me right now.”

“Don't worry about him. I'll call him this afternoon after my last appointment. So, just to make sure we're clear: what do you need to do?”

“Eat more, sleep more. Slow down to human speed. Make sure my gear fits.”

“Good. You were paying attention. You're so fidgety it's hard to tell if you're listening.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that's why I'm a fireman and not, I dunno, an accountant or something. Never could sit still.”

He laughed. “Well, Mr. Gage, I think you're going to be a fine fireman. Just finish growing, okay? I'll see you when you're twenty. You can make an appointment on your way out.”

“Thanks, Doc. I mean it.”

I walked out of the office, relieved that I had an answer. An embarrassing one, for sure. I couldn't quite figure how I'd missed the fact that I'd put on over three inches of height. And I wasn't exactly looking forward to more jokes about how I looked like I was fourteen. But I could live with it—I had, for the last nine months.

And really, from what I heard from some other guys, I was having a real easy probie year. A couple guys from my recruit class washed out in the first few months—but they were ones I didn't think shoulda passed the academy anyhow. And another couple guys had horror stories about how they were always the butt of some joke or another, and how they always got all the real dirty work all to themselves. I mean, sure, I got the grunt work, but that's all part of your job as a probie. I didn't really mind, and luckily nobody at the station seemed to be on a mission to make sure I minded.

So I'd slow down, and try to cram as much food in myself as I could—especially at the station, where sure, we all chipped in for meals, but there always seemed to be extra, like there wasn't usually in my own fridge. And I guessed I'd have to learn to like milk. Oh well. I'm young—there's plenty of time to develop new habits, right?

 **TBC**

Next up: it's true, even Cap was a probie once.

 


	2. Hank Stanley: The First Worst Call

**WARNING** : This chapter deals with the death of a child. It's not graphic, but this topic warrants a warning for emotional content.

 

Chapter 2.

Hank Stanley: The First Worst Call

 

Nobody was saying a damned thing. Usually there was some chatter in the cab, even on the way back from the toughest fires, the ones that take what seems like forever to get even remotely under control, and then have us overhauling the wreckage till we're dead on our feet. Griping about idiots, or gallows humor, perhaps—but at least something to cut the silence.

But tonight? Nothing.

I was doing my best not to cry, and it was pretty god-damned hard. I could tell Parsons, kitty-corners across from me in the cab, had lost that battle. I was pretty sure I'd lose it soon myself.

I felt worst for Calhoun, our engineer. He had to keep it together enough to drive us all back to the station. The rest of us could lose it whenever we wanted, but not him.

I could see Captain Jefferson in the officer's seat, next to Calhoun. He had his head buried in his hands. Even Caps are allowed to break down for something like this. I'm pretty sure we all are.

Calhoun backed the ladder truck into the bay, and we all got out slowly.

“Take ten, boys,” Jefferson said. “Then we'll hang hoses and get our truck back in service.”

I knew then that I was being given permission to lose it. I went out to the parking lot, and yanked open the heavy door of my Plymouth sedan, sat down in the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. My sobs were deafening in the silence of the car.

I ran through the whole thing in my head, over and over and over. He was under the bed—just where we're taught to look for children. I couldn't see a thing, of course, but as soon as I felt there was a bed next to the wall I was following with my hand, I knew I'd find the missing child under that bed. I just knew, somehow, that Parsons and I were searching the right room.

I dragged the limp form out from under the bed, and kept him on the floor all the way to the window where we'd come in. All the while, I was yelling as loudly as I could to Parsons. “I got him, I got him! Let's get out!”

Parsons must've heard, because he was at the window, swinging himself out onto the ladder and ready to take the child down to the ground. I handed the boy to him, and stayed low under the window until Parsons was off the top fly of the ladder and I could safely begin to descend.

By the time we were both on the ground, I still hadn't gotten a look at the child. But I could see his limbs flopping bonelessly as Parsons rushed him to the safe area next to the truck. I pulled the oxygen cylinder out of the compartment above us, turned on the flow of the precious gas, and slipped the tubing between Parson's lips and the boy's face, so the boy would be getting more than just the hand-me-down oxygen left in Parson's exhalations.

I got my first look at the boy when I approached with the oxygen. He wasn't burned—not at all. But his lips were blue, and his skin was gray.

At first I tried to convince myself that it was just soot—it would wash off, and his lips would pink up as soon as he got some good air.

His lips never got pink. And it wasn't just soot. It was death. It wouldn't ever wash off.

And that gray little face was burned into my consciousness, forever.

I sat behind the wheel of my Plymouth and bawled. I pounded the dashboard so hard I probably broke something, but I didn't care. I was furious at the world, enraged at the drunk downstairs who fell asleep smoking a cigarette—he got out fine, of course. I raged, and stormed, and kicked, and screamed, until nothing was left except tears, and an indelible image of a gray little boy.

I turned the whole incident over in my head, again and again. Next time, I'd be faster up the ladder—faster to do the primary search of the other bedrooms. Faster to find the child hiding under the bed, where he thought the smoke couldn't get him. Maybe, if I'd been better, faster—not a dumb probie, but a seasoned veteran—I would've gotten to him in time. I'm sure Captain Jefferson would have sent the more experienced pair in as a search team if they hadn't gotten bogged down by the piles and piles of junk the guy in the downstairs apartment had stacked in every room.

My handkerchief was a sodden mess by the time I realized I'd been outside for far more than the ten minutes Cap had granted us. I swiped it over my face one more time, though, and blew my nose. I was still crying, but it was just tears and snot—the screams and sobs had gotten tired and worn out, and needed to rest. I laid my forehead on the steering wheel, and tried to steel myself to return to the job.

The passenger's-side door opened, and I felt the cushy suspension bounce as someone sat next to me on the wide bench seat. The door shut with a metallic click. I didn't have to look to know who was sitting next to me.

I sniffled, and tried to pull myself together in front of my captain.

He laid a hand on my shoulder, but didn't say anything for a while. I forced my tears down to a trickle, but still had a lump in my throat the size of a basketball.

“These are always the hardest ones, Hank.”

“I wasn't fast enough,” I blurted. “Someone else—Ernst, or Needham—could've gotten him out alive.”

“No, Hank. They couldn't have. But even if they could have—they weren't there. You were. You did everything right. And that's one of the worst parts of the job—when we do everything right, and people die anyhow. The only thing that's worse is when we screw up and people die. But that's not what happened tonight. You understand?”

I swiped my wrist across my eyes. “Yes. No. I mean, how can anyone understand anything so senseless? He was just a kid, Cap—practically a baby!” I looked at my captain imploringly, as if he could somehow fix what I was feeling.

Cap shook his head. “It's not something we're meant to understand, is what I think. And the day I tell someone that this sort of thing gets easier every time—well, that's the day I know I need to hang up my helmet for good. Because it doesn't get easier, Hank. Not when there's kids involved.”

I thought about what he'd said, and realized he was right. If something like this was ever easy, or if it even seemed possible to deal with, then it was time to quit. I laid my head on the steering wheel again, and closed my eyes.

The image of the gray face came to me as soon as my eyes were closed. And Cap could tell exactly what was happening in my head.

“He's gonna stick with you for the rest of your life, Hank. I don't know what exact picture you're seeing now, but you're gonna see it over, and over, and over, for the next few days. And then one day, you'll maybe notice at lunchtime that you hadn't seen the picture yet that day. And another day, you'll notice at supper time. Later on, you'll notice at bedtime that you hadn't thought about it all day, and then you'll be up that whole night.”

“But someday, you'll get up in the morning, and realize that you didn't think about that kid for the whole previous day. And then you'll feel terrible, for starting to forget him. But there will come a day, Hank—and I promise you this—when you'll see the picture in your mind, and be able to put it away and move on. You'll still get the picture out sometimes—it's yours, forever and ever, whether you want it or not, because he was your first kid. But the picture will start to come out less and less, and finally, you'll only ever get it out on purpose, or when something specific happens to remind you of it. ”

If it had been anyone else telling me that, I wouldn't have believed it. I didn't see how I could possibly get past what I'd seen tonight.

But he understood. So I believed him.

I felt a sense of calm wash over me, wrapping itself around the sorrow, the guilt, the pain, so they were still there, but somehow didn't hurt me as much. I took a deep breath, and let it out shakily.

“It's a rough road we drive on in this profession, Hank. And sometimes, the best we can do is just get back on the road, and carry on.”

I wiped my eyes, and blew my nose one last time.

“Yeah. Okay,” I said.

We got out of my car, and I joined Parsons and Needham at the hose tower. Nobody needled me, or even said anything at all about how I'd disappeared. We just quietly hoisted the wet hoses up to the top of the tower, and trooped back into the station when we were done.

For the entire rest of the shift, nobody called me “Probie.” Just for one night, I had my own name back, like I was a real person to the rest of the crew. It was a little thing, but it reminded me that they'd all been there too. Hell, even Cap was a probie once, way back when.

As I lay awake in my bunk, I could hear the other men shifting and stirring as well. Nobody was going to sleep well for what little was left of our night. I thought about what Captain Jefferson had said. He'd been a fireman for over fifteen years—since I was just a little older than the boy who died tonight. I'd been at it for all of six months. So I just had to take his word for it—that sometimes the best we could do was just carry on.

I tried to put myself in Cap's shoes—maybe in a decade I'd have my turn to put some young probie back together again after something like this. I just hoped I'd do as good a job as him.

 **TBC**


	3. Marco: Not the Gardener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco learns something about human nature, and about dogs.

Chapter 3

Marco: Not the Gardener

My stomach fell as soon as I heard the address of the call. It was the richest street in the richest neighborhood in my station's district. Great. In addition to being a second-class citizen in my own workplace, thanks to my orange probie helmet, I could look forward to the disdain of some rich fake-blonde Anglo lady who thought firemen should all be pale Irishmen, and that Mexicans should be wearing sombreros and working in the garden.

Just like my nemesis at the station did.

Most of the guys were okay towards me. I mean, everyone was in on some of the practical jokes and such, but that was the sort of thing I expected as a probie. It was all in good fun—good-natured teasing and harmless pranks. But Grady (nice Irish boy, right?) always took things just a little further. Not enough to get him in trouble, but just enough that I could tell there was some malice behind his actions. The worst thing he did, by far, was to purposely tell me the wrong way to do things. Again, nothing dangerous, but things that would just make me look stupid. In the six months since I started my probie year, I'd figured out most of his tricks, but since he was the lieutenant in charge of our truck company, he got to tell me what to do when I had the bad luck to be assigned to the ladder truck instead of the engine.

We arrived at the house. Smoke was pushing from several first-floor windows. The neighbor who called us said she thought the lady was out shopping, because her car wasn't in the garage. She didn't think anyone was home, because the maid's car was usually parked on the street, and it wasn't there either. We could all hear the vigorous barking and yapping that suggested that there were probably several frenzied dogs inside.

The engine's crew established a water supply and started zig-zagging a hand-line to the front door, while our crew laddered some windows and started our most careful forcible entry techniques.

I finished my ladder assignments, and returned to Grady for a new assignment.

“Probie! You get dog duty.”

That sounded like a shitty job. I almost cracked myself up thinking that, but I held it in because I knew it would piss Grady off. “Um … okay. What does that mean, exactly?”

“You're in charge of making sure that the dogs get out, but don't run away.”

Great. I hated dogs, and they hated me. I could hear the barking coming from inside the house, and it sure sounded like a lot of dogs. I didn't really get what he wanted me to do, and “dog duty” was not exactly something that was covered in the academy.

“Well? Go on! Get a safety belt, and some rope, and get to it!”

I didn't really have a choice but to follow his orders, though I had no idea how a safety belt could possibly come into play. It was probably another one of those things he said just to try to make me look like an idiot. But, I did what he said, and put on a safety belt and some rope, and stood by the door just as the forcible entry team popped the lock and entered the house. It took a while longer that way, but there didn't seem to be flames, and there wasn't anyone in the house, and it was a huge ornate wooden door that the owners probably would've been really pissed if we broke.

As soon as the door opened, two poodles—the big kind with the ridiculous looking puffballs on their legs and tails—trotted out. I grabbed the first one by its collar, and looped my rope through a ring on its collar that was probably where a leash would go. Its companion tried to get past me, but I was quicker than he?—she?— _it_ was. I put the rope through that one's collar ring too.

That took care of the barking dogs. But what about the yapping ones?

I could hear from the chatter on the HTs that the attack line crew had found nothing but a smoldering pile of something or other in the oven. But the smoke smelled toxic—it was thick, and black, and nasty. So there was nothing for it—I'd have to go in after the yappers. I tied the rope with the two big poodles attached to it to a section of the wrought-iron fence. I went back to the truck, packed up, and marched inside, in search of the yapping.

If dogs don't like me in general, they _really_ don't like me in full turnout gear and SCBA. I found the first yapper on the couch in the living room. It was a lap-sized version of the monstrosities I'd left outside. I grabbed it under one arm, and carried it, snarling furiously, out to the truck. I should clear that up—it was the _dog_ that was snarling furiously, but I was well on my way. I left the dog with its larger friends, on a short length of rope, and headed back inside in search of one more cute little puppy dog that I knew was still in there.

I held my breath for a few seconds, because I found that if I was breathing at all, the noise from the regulator masked the frantic high-pitched yipping, on every breath, and I needed to find that one last canine and get it the hell out of the house. I searched the living room first, because that was where the sound seemed to be coming from.

Nothing.

I held my breath again, and followed the sound around the corner, into a dining room that looked like something out of a medieval castle. There was a table that had to be thirty feet long, and right smack in the middle was an even smaller poodle. It was so small it looked like it could fit in my mother's teapot, so naturally, that kids' song about “I'm a little teapot” started going through my head.

The dog was terrified. Every time I came near it, it high-tailed it to the opposite end of the table. I chased it back and forth a few times, and realized I didn't have a snowball's chance in L.A. of catching the thing without some tricks.

The kitchen must have been through the swinging door. I could picture a butler with a silver tray making his way solemnly through the door, but what really happened was I went through it, and opened the fridge, looking for anything that might be dog-bait. Happily, there was a package of ham right in the front, so I unashamedly took a slice. Parker, from the engine company, had just finished hanging a negative pressure vent fan in a window, and looked at me oddly.

I ignored him, and reached up to a large rack hanging on the ceiling, and took down the biggest cooking pot I could find. I found its matching lid, and returned to the dining room. I put the ham on the end of the table, and waited.

He couldn't resist it. He darted down to my end of the table, growling pathetically at me and giving me the evil eye, but he just couldn't resist. When he reached the ham, I clanged the cooking pot over him, slid the pot to the edge of the table, and glided it out onto its lid. I slowly turned the pot right side up, and, being sure to hold the lid on tightly, took the pot outside.

As I prepared to extricate the dog from the pot, the song came to me again. “Tip me over and pour me out!”

“Probie!”

Great. I still had the pot in my hands, and it was reverberating with high-pitched barks.

“Quit being a yard-breather! And what the hell do you have that pot for?”

He was right—there was no excuse for breathing air out of your bottle once you were outside of the smoky environment, but I'd need one hand to shut off the flow from the regulator and detach it from my mask, and I needed both hands to manage the pot and its lid.

I set the pot on the ground, and put a boot on the lid while I went off air and took my mask off.

“Sorry. I've got the last dog, here.”

To my dismay, there was a richly attired woman standing just outside the fence, watching our every move. Probably the homeowner. Terrific. This was probably a prize show dog, or something, and I had it in a cooking pot.

“In a _pot_?” Grady bellowed. “Jesus Christ. Never mind. Get it out, and go get the other dogs the hell out of the way. Everyone's tripping over the damned things.”

“Yessir,” I said. Great. Chewed out in front of the homeowner. Just what I needed. She'd probably sue me anyhow, for putting her expensive dog in her expensive pot.

“Well?” Grady shouted. “Don't just stand there! Get a move on!” He was putting on his best show of yelling at “the help” in front of the rich lady, no doubt about it.

I was glad for my heavy fire gloves and turnout coat as I lifted the lid off the pot and scooped the tiny poodle out. If he hadn't pissed in the pot, and hadn't immediately latched his teeth onto the thumb of my left glove, I might've even thought he was kinda cute. I put my last length of rope through the itsy bitsy collar, and carried him over to his, uh, housemates.

I pondered the puzzle of how to get all four dogs the hell out of everyone's way. I patted the pockets of my turnout gear, hoping that feeling what I had in each pocket would make me think of an idea. As I patted the pockets nearest my waist, I felt the safety belt, and a plan suddenly fell into place. I tied the tiniest dog's rope to the metal ring on one side of my belt. I untied the end of the middle-sized pup's rope from the fence, and added it to the ring as well. The two large dogs were on the same rope—the same really long rope—so I untied that rope, made it into a loop, and pulled most of the loop through the ring on the other side of the belt.

I looked and felt ridiculous, with four dogs leashed to my safety belt. I figured that “out of the way” was probably best interpreted as “outside the fence.” So, much as I didn't want to approach the homeowner, who, as I suspected, was an obviously-fake blonde, with overdone makeup and nails, I went through the gate. Half the dogs were pulling me forwards, and the other half were pulling me backwards, as they tried to scrabble their way back into their house, too dumb to know they were safer out here with me.

As soon as we were through the gate, I nearly got knocked down by the force of all four dogs rushing towards their owner at once. There was nothing I wanted less than to have a discussion with this lady, but there was also nothing I could do about the fact that her dogs were taking me there. So I pretended that I was going that way anyhow.

“I, uh, have your dogs, ma'am.” I winced inwardly. Of _course_ I had her dogs. Any idiot could see that.

But she hadn't heard me. She was kneeling on the ground, cooing and talking to her dogs. She patted each one over and over, and they licked her face and slobbered all over her finery. Maybe she wasn't as stuck up as I'd assumed, since she didn't seem to mind. She sure did seem to love those dogs—she hadn't asked me a thing about her house—she was only paying attention to her dogs. Who were still tied to me.

After a minute or two, she stood up. She looked at the dogs, and said, in a firm tone, “Sit.”

All at once, the four unruly beasts plopped their butts on the sidewalk, looking up at her adoringly, from varying heights.

“Did you get all four of my dogs out, all on your own?” she asked.

“Uh, yes ma'am. I'm, uh, sorry about putting the little one in the pot, but he was so scared, and I didn't want him to get hurt if I grabbed him, and—”

“Think nothing of it,” she said. “I'm so grateful. Nothing in that house means a thing to me except my dogs, and nobody here but you seemed to care about them at all. So thank you, very much.” I wasn't so good at accents, but hers sounded maybe a little Southern.

“You're welcome.” I decided to ignore the fact that I wasn't really a dog person—they could probably smell my cats even through my turnout gear. I then remembered the awkward mess of rope still connecting the dogs to my belt. “Uh, would you like me to untie them?”

She laughed. “Oh, good heavens, no! Without their leashes, and with all this commotion going on, they'd be all over the place.” She looked at the belt. “But I suppose that means you're stuck here, though—I'm sorry, you probably have important things to be doing, Mr., ah …”

“Lopez,” I said. “It's all right—my boss said I should take care of the dogs, so I'm happy to help out until you can get back in your house.”

“Lopez?” she said. “I thought I heard that rude fellow call you something else.”

“Probie,” I said. “That's the nickname for anyone who's new, like me—short for 'probationary.' That's what the orange helmet means.”

“Well, never mind. Thank you very much, Mr. Lopez. I'm Eliza Gibson, by the way—that's my house. Well, I guess that's fairly obvious. Do you know what happened? Nobody's bothered to tell me anything other than 'Nothing to worry about, ma'am, we've got everything under control.'” She did a pretty good imitation of Grady's pompous way of talking, and I couldn't suppress a laugh.

“I think something was smoldering in the oven. It didn't seem like food—maybe something plastic, or rubber, from the smell of it.”

She had a blank look on her face for a moment, and then smacked her palm to her forehead. “Holy _shit_. Pardon my French. The dog toys. Ohhh, how could I be so stupid?”

“Ma'am?”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “I know exactly what happened.” She shook her head. “This is so embarrassing, I can't believe it. I washed the dogs' toys this morning, and some of them were just taking forever to dry, so I put them in the oven—just on low heat, you know—but, I guess I kind of … forgot.”

As if to prove her right, Parker emerged from the house, carrying two oven racks with various melted and charred pieces of plastic and rubber fused to them. Pete Martin was right behind him, with what looked like the heating element from the oven and the piece of sheet metal that was beneath it.

Mrs. Gibson looked on in dismay. “Bob is going to _kill_ me.” She looked up at me again. “That's my husband. He tends to be very … particular about things.”

“Well,” I said, “the good news is it was just the oven—there wasn't any fire that spread. You'll probably have to get a cleaning service in that specializes in smoke damage, because a lot of things will have absorbed the odor. But you should be able to be back in the house any time now. There are two really big fans going, to blow the smoke out of the house, and fresh air is coming in through all the windows we opened.”

“Fresh air?” she said. “We're in L.A., remember?”

“Okay, well, non-smoky air, then.” I couldn't believe it—this lady was actually _joking_ with me. It was … unexpected. Kind of made me feel bad about my assumptions. But in a good sort of way. Like, reaffirming the idea that maybe most people are actually all right.

I cut that thought short as I saw Grady come through the gate. I was sure I was about to get chewed out for something or another, just like always.

“Lopez! Quit bothering the lady, and find something to do. There's no time to stand around on a job like this!” He turned to the lady. “Ma'am, I'm Lieutenant Grady. Sorry if Lopez here is bothering you. He's new. I'll find him something useful to do.”

She pulled herself up to her full height, which, with her heels, brought her nearly up to his shoulder. Her fierce glower added another inch or two to her height.

“Mr. Grady,” she said, purposely not using the title he flaunted to her, “Mr. Lopez here, new though he may be, took care of my dogs, which as far as I'm concerned is about the most useful thing anyone here has done. I asked him to please stay here and hold onto the dogs. And, considering that there are four men standing in the yard doing absolutely nothing, don't you think he could hang onto them for a few more minutes?”

Grady took a step backwards. “Uh, I suppose so, if he's not bothering you.”

“No,” she said, as if speaking to a three-year-old, “he's not bothering me. In fact, he's the only one who's bothered to tell me anything about what's going on in my house, other than what a fabulous job you're all doing of getting things under control.”

“Uh, yes ma'am. You should be able to go back in soon—the fans are just—”

“Yes, I know. He explained to me. And another thing—you didn't have to shout at him. And don't think I didn't hear you take the Lord's name in vain, either.”

Yes, definitely a Southern accent.

“Uh, yes ma'am, sorry ma'am.” Grady cleared his throat. “I, uh, should get back to work. We'll have you back in your house in a jiffy.”

She shot knives at him with her eyes. “Thank you,” she said coldly.

Boy, I was gonna get it from Grady when we got back to the station. I knew I would. She knew it too.

“Is _he_ in charge of your station?” Mrs. Gibson asked.

“No, ma'am. That would be Captain Ferguson. He's the one with the white stripe on his helmet. I don't see him right now—he must be inside.”

“Ferguson. Right.” She pulled a notebook from her bag, and wrote down his name. “And what's your station? Oh, Station 8, of course—it's all over your trucks. Can you give me the address of the station?”

“Sure.” I gave her the address, with silent glee that perhaps Grady might get knocked down a notch or two. Not that it would save me from whatever he had planned for me later today.

“Thank you, Mr. Lopez. I'll be sure to speak with your captain before you all leave.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” I said, humbled by her kindness, and by my own poor assumptions about how a lady in her position would behave towards me.

As if he knew it was time for him to make his entrance, Cap came out of the house, trailed by two of the other guys from the engine, each carrying a negative pressure fan.

“That means they're done, right?” she asked.

“Probably. It will still smell bad,” I warned, “but if Captain Ferguson lets you back in the house, it's safe.”

“All right.”

The dog from the pot barked as Cap approached.

“Quiet, Bruce!” Mrs. Gibson said.

Bruce? A pretty unlikely name for a poodle, but I wasn't going to say anything.

“Ma'am? I'm Captain Ferguson. It seems you had some plastic or rubber burning in your oven. Nothing else caught fire, luckily, but the oven's a loss for sure. You should have a talk with your maid, or whoever left those things in there.”

“Well, it's myself I'll be having the talk with, actually,” she said. My estimation of her character rose another few notches. “Entirely my fault. I feel like an idiot. But—thank you very much for taking care of everything. Your lieutenant didn't explain very well what was going on, but Mr. Lopez here filled me in nicely. And I truly appreciate that he was able to get all my dogs out safely. That couldn't have been easy—they're a real handful, especially young Bruce. Mr. Lopez was very clever to bring him out in a pot—I never would have thought of that.”

Ferguson nodded to me. “Good work, Lopez. Can you help the lady get her dogs back to the house? Then we'll be on our way.”

“Yessir, Cap.”

I walked tiny Bruce and his companions back to the house. I wiped my feet on the doormat, and followed Mrs. Gibson into the grand foyer that I'd hardly noticed my first time in the house. She took four leashes off a peg by the door, and hooked them to each dog in turn. I untied the ropes from my belt, and the dogs from the ropes. While I was down on a knee untying the last dog, one of the big poodles gave me a sloppy dog kiss, right on the face.

I didn't mind all that much.

Mrs. Gibson extended her hand, and I took off my glove, and shook her hand.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Lopez.”

“You're very welcome, Mrs. Gibson.”

~!~!~!~

One week later, Cap called me into his office.

“We just got a letter from the dog lady from last week.”

“Oh, Mrs. Gibson?” I asked. “That's nice.”

“She made a donation to the Widows and Children's Fund, in your honor, to the tune of two grand.”

My jaw dropped. I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say, so I just didn't say anything.

“Nice work, Lopez.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

 **TBC**


	4. Chet: The Joke's On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Phantom got his start.

Chapter 4

Chet: The Joke's on Me

Every guy graduating from the fire academy knew to expect some trickery during their probie year. A lot of us had relatives in the fire service, so we'd heard about the hazing we had coming to us. We all knew that it was just part of joining the brotherhood, and most of the time, it was all in good fun. I'd heard from one guy in my recruit class that he'd really been getting it bad, to the point that some of the pranks were dangerous, but luckily, everything the guys at my station pulled seemed to be pretty tame.

My cousin Jimmy had warned me about all the classics—like “get the left handed screwdriver,” or “bring me the hose stretcher,” and that sort of nonsense. My bunk had been the target of a whole slew of pranks. It had been short sheeted, floured, and remade with the box spring on top of the mattress. My car keys had been frozen overnight into a block of ice.

I'd fallen neatly for a request for the “ID10-T” form, which I searched for in the office, to no avail, until Captain Pelletier finally asked me what I was looking for. Cap chuckled quietly, but not unkindly, and then patiently helped me to work it out by making me write down the name of the form I'd been asked to find.

I grew up around engines of all sorts, so I hadn't fallen for being asked to find new spark plugs for the diesel engine. And when they asked me to order a non-existent part for a gas-powered generator, I knew I was being pranked, and got them right back by making a fake phone call and then telling guys the part would be in on Tuesday.

I'd been the victim of so many different kinds of water bombs that they hardly even registered any more. Well, except for the time they dumped a trash can full of ice water over the top of the shower stall as soon as I shut the water off. _That_ got my attention.

I had to admit that sewing all my pants pockets shut was one that I hadn't heard of. Someone must've come in pretty early to pull that one off.

But the best one, by far, happened on the next-to-last shift as a probie. I knew _something_ was coming, since it'd been a couple shifts since the last prank. But I'd foolishly been expecting it to happen on the very last shift where I'd be wearing the orange helmet. Part of me was hoping they'd just run out of ideas, or had gotten bored with the whole thing. But that part of me got a good talking-to from the rational side of my brain.

We had one guy in our station who would sometimes sleep through the tones, so I knew it was possible. I just didn't think it would ever happen to me. So when it did, and I was awoken by Bill Edwards, already in his bunker pants and boots, shaking me wildly by my shoulder, I was horrified.

“C'mon, Probie! You slept through the tones!”

“Huh?”

I sat up, and I could hear the diesel engine chugging away in the bay. Man, Cap would be pissed if I held them up. I shoved my feet into my boots—but it didn't work. I got my foot halfway down into the boot when I realized I must've set everything down backwards by the side of my bunk, because I was trying to cram my toes into the heels of my boots.

Edwards stood by the door of the dorms, waving frantically. “Hurry the fuck up, you moron! Everyone's waiting!”

I quickly turned the whole bundle around, and was able to easily slip my feet into the boots this time. Whew.

I pulled the pants up, but something was wrong again—I couldn't get hold of the fastener at the front of the pants for some reason.

Because I had them on backwards.

My sleep-fogged mind decided I must've somehow gotten my boots tucked backwards into my pants. It couldn't be a prank; everyone knew better than to do something that would potentially affect our speed to a fire call.

Edwards was shouting at me now. “Jesus Christ! Just pull the suspenders up, and get moving!”

I did as he said—I could _just_ get the pants up, but there was no way I was ever going to be able to fasten them. Oh well—the suspenders would take care of that. It wouldn't be comfortable, or pretty, but I'd survive.

I dashed out into the bay, where everyone was else had already taken their seats in the cab.

Cap was twisted around in his seat to see what the hell had taken me so long. “Kelly! You're backwards!” he shouted. “Never mind—just get the rest of your gear on. It's only a dumpster. Probably will have burned itself out by the time we get there, if we ever do at this rate.”

Munson, the engineer, turned around to look, and guffawed at the sight of me dressed up backwards. The other guys were practically on the floor of the cab. I just ignored them and threw my coat on.

I got my right arm through the sleeve, and sat down in my seat while I got my left arm into the sleeve. I couldn't get my hand through the sleeve—it was twisted, or … shit. It was sewn shut. That was really pushing it, I thought. We had a call to go to, and this was holding us all up.

“Very funny, guys, but we're kind of in a hurry here.” Snorts of laughter emerged from all around me as I punched my arm through the flimsy stitching, as the engine started rolling out of the bay. I grabbed my bright orange helmet from its place on the floor of the cab, and jammed it down onto my head, sure there would be something in it. I sighed in relief as it settled onto my head, and nothing dripped down my face.

The engine rolled down the street, and lurched uncharacteristically as Munson took the corner a little hard. I realized then that my helmet strap was loose, so I gave it a tug to tighten it up a bit.

That was when the chocolate syrup poured down my face.

The three other guys in the back of the cab were howling with laughter. Edwards was literally on the floor, clutching his midsection as he laughed hysterically.

The engine took another quick right, and there we were, at our destination—the back parking lot of our station. Where our dumpster had a fake paper-and-paint fire taped to its open lid.

A fake call. I realized, finally, that I hadn't in fact slept through the tones. And that I hadn't somehow managed to tuck my boots into my bunker pants backwards—someone had managed that for me.

I took off my sticky helmet, and saw the plastic bag tucked above the webbing that's the only part of the helmet that actually sits on your head. I could see the string that went from the strap to a piece of tape that had once sealed the bag.

“C'mon, Probie—let's get you the hell out of my fire engine before you get it all sticky,” Captain Pelletier said, wiping the tears of laughter away from his eyes.

“Nice job, guys. You really got me good,” I said. There was really nothing else to be said—it was a fabulous prank, and they caught me every step of the way.

“Go on, get in the shower,” Cap said, as we pulled through the bay.

As I showered, I wondered what they had up their collective sleeves for my last shift as a probie. Time would tell—and not all that much time, either, since we only had one day off. Whatever it was, it would have to be pretty good to top this one. Which was definitely going straight into the notebook of tricks I was keeping, just in case I ever had occasion to use them on someone deserving. A probie of my own, maybe, in a few years, or just some guy who really gave good reactions. Those were the best, I imagined—the guys who were just a teensy bit high strung, but wouldn't totally fall to pieces if they got pranked.

I made the shower as quick as possible, to try to avoid any mishaps. They'd done the ice water trick already, as well as the bag of flour tossed in while I was still soaking wet. I didn't see any shadowy figures through the frosted door of the shower stall, so I thought I might just be safe.

I got dressed quickly, and was a bit worried by how quiet the station seemed. They surely had _something_ else planned—because quiet was just _wrong_ at a firehouse, except in the dead of night. I thought for a moment I could hear something like a hairdryer, but it wasn't coming from the locker room, and nobody else had been in the shower, anyhow, so I was at a loss.

I could smell some kind of solvent as I came out of the locker room—paint? They wouldn't use something _that_ nasty on me. Maybe Munson was touching up a ding or something. I headed into the day room, and stopped short when I got to the open door.

My turnout coat, cleaned of all traces of chocolate syrup, was hanging neatly over the chair at the head of the table. My name, stenciled on the back of the coat, had been touched up neatly, with fresh black paint. And on the table, in front of the chair, was a brand new black helmet.

I didn't want to get any closer—I still had another shift to go as a probie, so this had to be part of another trick.

“No tricks, Kelly.” I jumped at Captain Pelletier's voice.

I turned around, and all the guys were standing behind me in the bay, smiling at me, like they meant it.

“But—” I said, almost not wanting to finish my sentence. “But I still have one more shift to go.”

“No, you don't,” said Cap. “We captains get a little leeway for these things. I signed you off at the end of your last shift. Your official paperwork is sitting on my desk, right now, waiting for you to sign it. And as for your first assignment—you're staying right here. Everyone requested it. And the tricks are over.”

“At least for a little while,” Edwards added.

“I said,” Cap repeated firmly, “the tricks are over. Got it? I need a break, all right?”

“Aw, I was just kidding, Cap,” said Edwards. “Go on, Kelly—put your gear on your rack. I swear—we didn't do anything to it. We even dried the paint, so it won't smudge or anything.”

I quietly picked up my coat, and my new black helmet. As I placed everything on my gear rack, the bay filled with applause. Each guy shook my hand—no buzzers or anything, even. Edwards slapped me on the back so hard I nearly fell down, and Munson, the one guy who was as short as I was, grabbed me in a bear hug.

“Welcome home, Firefighter Kelly,” said Captain Pelletier. “We're be proud to have you as our brother.”

 **TBC**


	5. Mike: The Harder They Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stoker's probie period isn't easy.

A/N: Okay, so this one is more of a movie than a snapshot. It happens. Enjoy.

 

Chapter 5

Mike: The Harder They Fall

I parked my car in the back lot of L.A. County Fire Department Station 14, and tried to calm myself down. I didn't know why I was so nervous—I was starting the job I'd been trained for. They wouldn't have graduated me from the academy if they didn't think I at least had a shot of succeeding. But I had a bad case of first-day nerves anyhow.

The letter I'd gotten about my first assignment told me to show up here at 0730, on this date, to start my assignment with the B-shift, under Captain Sprague. The station was a six-man unit, with a four-man engine company and a two-man rescue unit. The rescue guys were usually more experienced than the two regular firemen in the engine company, but not always. Some guys got recommended for rescue training right after their probationary period.

I knew the engine company would be made up of the captain, the engineer, a regular firefighter, and me. The engineer and the captain, of course, were guys who had put in a lot of years already. The regular firefighter was the guy who'd be my partner most of the time, and could be anything from a fifteen-year veteran to a guy with a couple solid years under his belt, or anything in between. The captain would be in charge of me, of course, but the other guy would be the one I actually worked with most of the time.

I walked right in to the station, and looked for the captain's office. It wasn't hard to find. The door was slightly ajar, so I knocked on it quietly.

“C'mon in.”

I stepped in, trying not to be too hesitant—that was the main thing they got on my case about at the academy, was being tentative. So I did my best just to barge in.

“Mike Stoker, reporting for duty.” God, that sounded dumb. Oh well. It was out, and there was nothing I could do about it now.

The captain stuck out his hand and we shook. “Stoker—nice to meet you. Have a seat.”

I sat down in the wooden chair in front of his desk. I could see he had my file out, and had been reading it.

“So—you're not the most typical probie.”

I gulped.

“Uh, I suppose not, sir.”

“Two years at UCLA, before you went to the fire academy. That's pretty unusual.”

I had an answer ready for that one. “I always wanted to be a fireman. I did some time at college, because my parents expected it, but I finally mustered up the guts to drop out and do what I really wanted.”

“And you were a little older when you started college, too, so you're what, twenty one?”

“Just turned twenty two, actually.”

“Most of our probies are eighteen or nineteen, so you're a little older than usual. Though we sometimes get guys who've been in the army for a couple years, too. Not too many college boys, though, so expect to take some shit about that.”

He hadn't asked a question, and I didn't have anything to say to that, so I just didn't say anything.

Sprague closed my file, and looked back over at me. “Your final report from the academy said you were smart, and strong, and sensible. Quiet. And really, really well behaved. Maybe to the point that it was a little odd.”

I shrank into my chair ever so slightly. “I, uh, don't like trouble. I'm not unfriendly—I mean, I don't think I am—I just, uh, don't like to talk about myself all that much.”

Sprague nodded. “Well, that's going to be an interesting change from some of the fellows around here. Just make sure you're not too standoffish, though, all right? We're all going to be pretty much living in each other's pockets one out of every three days, for the foreseeable future, and I'd like us all to get off on the right foot.”

“Yessir. I'll do my best.”

“I know you will. That was the other thing they said in your report—that you like to do things well. Never sloppy. I like that.”

“Yessir.”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes boring into me like a soldering iron through an ice cube. “So, Stoker. What else do you think I should know?”

See, that was exactly the kind of question I hated. There were all sorts of things I _could_ tell him, which is probably what he was aiming at, but not a lot that I _wanted_ to. I like my personal life to stay just that way—personal. Not that I had much of one, but they didn't need to know that. But I was ready for him, because I knew he'd ask me something like that. “Well, my uncle inspired me to join the fire department. Frank Stoker—my father's brother. He's retired; lives up near Santa Clarita now. He put in twenty five years, and retired as an engineer.”

“Any idea what direction you think you'll be headed in, eventually?”

I shook my head. “I loved the apparatus operations classes, and I can see why Uncle Frank loved being an engineer. But this is my first day. I think I'll try to wait awhile before I form an opinion.”

“Good man. That's what I was hoping you'd say.” He paused, and I was really hoping he'd be satisfied with my prepared response to his question. He was, apparently. “Anything you want to ask me?”

“Uh, I guess I'd kind of like to know what _you_ think I ought to know.”

“Good question.” He sat back in his chair, and folded his hands. “Here's a big one. The guy you're replacing—Sellers—everyone liked him. He was really good at his job. But he just got invalided out. He dislocated his shoulder really badly a few years ago, and had it surgically repaired, but it just kept popping back out again. The last time it happened, the docs said that was it. He didn't want to go, but everyone, him included, knew he couldn't do the job any more. So you've got some mighty big boots to fill, son. Everyone knows not to expect you're him. But some people—especially his partner, Merchant, who's your new partner—might not be able to remember that sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

Great. “Okay. Any advice, on that front?”

Sprague sighed. “I'm gonna be straight with you, Stoker. Merchant's gonna be tough to work with. I asked the department not to send us a probie, not yet, but in the end I didn't have a choice. Nothing against you personally, but I just didn't think it was a good idea. And I think the reason they sent you specifically, is because you're a little bit older, and a lot smarter, and a lot more level-headed, than most of the other guys in your class. So I'm sorry, but in your case, being a little bit better means you're going to have it a little bit worse.”

I nodded minutely. “All right. Thanks for the warning.”

“Don't get me wrong—he's a great guy. But he and Sellers were really close, and he took it real hard when his best buddy got his retirement papers about fifteen years before he should've. They were a solid team—everyone called them the Vending Machine—get it? Merchant, and Sellers?”

I nodded.

“Anyhow, he's gonna be tough on you. Which he should be—it's part of his job. But he also will probably take an instant dislike to you, which is _not_ part of his job. I've made it clear that he needs to stay professional, and I think he will. And I know you're not a mama's boy who's gonna want to come crying to me with every little problem, but I need to know you'll tell me if he crosses any lines. And I think you're the kind of guy who'll know if he does.” He looked at me with his soldering-iron eyes again. “Are you?”

I nodded again, reluctantly. “I can be, I think. I'll try.”

“Good man. Now, go pick a locker—and let me give you some advice on that one. The second one in the middle row—that one belonged to Sellers. Don't pick it.”

“Thanks. I won't.”

“Your gear's on your rack. I suspect you'll be able to recognize it by the orange helmet.”

“I think I'll find it, thanks,” I said dryly, but not sarcastically.

Sprague laughed. “All right—now scoot. See you at roll call.”

“Yessir. And thanks for the advice.” I ducked out of the office, and made my way across the apparatus bay to the locker room. I took what looked like the least desirable of the four empty lockers, all the way in the back corner, farthest from the sink and shower area. I scavenged a slip of paper from the day room, wrote my name on it, and slipped it into the slot on the locker where all the other ones had a black plastic name plate. I loaded my stuff into the locker. I didn't need to change—I was already in my Class B uniform.

As I exited the row, I nearly ran right into a mountain of a man. I knew instantly that this was my new partner.

“So. You're the probie,” he said.

I nodded.

“Mike Stoker.” We shook hands. I'm not exactly a small guy, but his huge paw dwarfed mine.

At the academy, I'd started to notice that firemen seemed to fall into three basic physical types. I privately called them Hydrants, Ladders, and Engines. The Hydrants were the shorter, stockier guys. There weren't enough short skinny guys for me to make up a name for that group—they just didn't have the heft you needed to handle a charged line. If you were short, you had to be sturdy.

The Ladders were guys like me, and Captain Sprague. Lean guys, taller than average—but no real skinny beanpoles, because again, you had to have the heft. But we Ladders could get away with being skinnier than the shorter Hydrants.

The Engines were the really huge guys—over six feet, and with some serious gym time visible on their frames. This guy was definitely an Engine. He stood about six five, maybe even six feet six. Probably tipped about 250 on the scales. None of it was flab, either.

“John Merchant.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He stared down at me—something I'm not used to, being six one myself. But like I said, I'm a Ladder, and this guy was an Engine, so he looked awfully big to me.

“Let's get one thing straight, Probie. I didn't want you here. Cap probably already told you that. And he probably told you why. Right?”

I didn't see any point in evasion. “Right.”

“And I hear you're a college boy. Don't get uppity. You're no better than the rest of us.”

I didn't bother to tell him I was a dropout—it wouldn't make any difference. “I know. I'm the dumbest one in the station, and I will be until I leave, or until someone else does and someone dumber than me comes in.”

He nodded. “Right answer, Probie. We're gonna work your ass, and we're gonna bust your chops, and you're gonna take it like a man.”

“Fine.” I knew I'd get the dirty work, and I knew I'd get hazed. It seemed like a stupid system to me, but I did kind of sign up for it. Just seemed like a waste of time and energy, though. Why not put all that energy into doing something useful?

I met the other three guys at roll call. Lou Foster, the engineer, barely acknowledged me. I guessed that meant either he was on Merchant's team, angry about Sellers' being invalided out, or that he just couldn't be bothered with a probie. The two rescue guys seemed a little easier to deal with, right off the bat. Rick Abbott turned out to be one of those rare short skinny guys; apparently his specialties were squeezing into tight places, and high-angle rope rescues. He could keep those specialties, as far as I was concerned. And Bert Saunders, a Ladder like me, was friendly right away. He'd been in the business for ten years, and described himself as a jack of all trades.

I just about puked when the tones dropped for my first real run ever. It turned out to be a false alarm, which meant I got to nearly puke again later for a run that did actually turn out to be something. Even if it was just a trash fire, it was still my first real fire. It was completely routine, and the whole thing literally could've happened at the academy's training area, but I knew I'd always remember it. Luckily, I didn't screw anything up. Unluckily, I got to do all the grunt work of cleaning up afterwards. I figured that was just how it was going to be.

They didn't make me cook my first shift, which was a good thing. I mean, I've been living on my own for four years, so it's not like I can't boil an egg, but applying one-person apartment cuisine, if you can call it that, to cooking for six people, was something I hadn't tried before. Abbott was the chef of the day, and luckily, he didn't give me much to live up to.

Merchant tried to pull a fast one on me that evening. He demanded that I fetch him the hose stretcher when we were loading hose after another small run. I knew perfectly well there was no such thing, but I hadn't thought any further than that.

“Uh, I would, but there's no such thing.”

He happened to be standing over the hose bed when he made his demand, so he looked like an absolute giant from where I was on the side running board.

“I warned you, don't get uppity with me, Probie!” he bellowed. Everyone stopped what they were doing.

I realized I was in a bad situation. Nobody had heard his request, and my answer was probably quiet enough that nobody had heard that, either. If I'd pretended to fall for the prank, I would've looked stupid. But my honest, quiet answer gave him an opportunity to make me look like a smart-ass.

I was smart enough not to try to talk my way out of the situation.

“Sorry,” I said, loudly enough to be heard by the other men. “Didn't mean to.” I went back to passing the hose up to him. “Coupling,” I shouted, as I passed the end of the hose up top, much louder than I needed to, but I didn't need him to blame me for not warning him it was coming.

At lights out, I got my next prank, when I opened my locker and was showered with styrofoam packing peanuts. I quietly cleaned them up and took them out to the dumpster before heading to bed. Which had been short-sheeted. I sighed and made it up again properly, as quietly as I could.

It was going to be a long year.

~!~!~!~

I was never quite sure how, but things slowly, steadily degenerated where Merchant was concerned. He was getting meaner and meaner, but never _quite_ crossed that line I was watching for. I overheard Saunders telling him that his constant bellowing at me was getting old, but Merchant just bellowed right back at Saunders that I was his probie (not technically true; I was Cap's) and that he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

There were little things, not pranks, but things that just made more work for me. Like one time I had washed the engine down after a particularly muddy run. I knew I'd gotten it spotless—as a neat freak you don't mistake these things—but Merchant dragged me out of the kitchen while I was working on dinner, and chewed me out loudly for missing a spot. Sure enough, there was a large patch of mud on the driver's side, which both he and I knew perfectly well hadn't been there five minutes beforehand. I apologized for “missing” it, cleaned it off, and got back to work in the kitchen.

Then another time, I made chili for dinner, and it turned out to be so spicy it was practically inedible. The thing was, I don't use pre-mixed chili powder in my recipe. And I only used a tiny pinch of red pepper, so as not to disturb anyone's palate too much. Merchant bitched and moaned about how I'd obviously used too much chili powder. All I could say was that I didn't mean for it to come out so hot, which was the absolute truth.

I made mistakes in the real work—of course I did. I was new. All the other guys could correct me without being total asses about it, but not Merchant. He delighted in every opportunity to set me straight about something, particularly when he could do it in front of bystanders.

About three months in, I realized I wasn't giving him what he wanted. He wanted me to break down, to get mad, to pick a fight—to show in any way that he was getting to me. Well, of course he was getting to me. And I had a long battle with myself over whether it would be better to simply give him what he wanted, and purposely react more noticeably to his behavior. But that would be pretending to be someone I'm not, which never sits well with me. So I just quietly took it.

Until that one day. Which, in retrospect, I should've known would eventually come.

The shift had started out really shitty. I was late—actually _late_ —because I got a flat on the way in to the station. I even called the station from a pay phone when I stopped to put the spare on, so Cap would know I was going to be late. I didn't get in too bad trouble, because of that. But I'd slept really badly the night before, so I was already cranky, and getting the flat and being late just made it all that much worse. I forgot to open my locker from the side, and got hit right in the face with a water bomb. I also got a quick heads-up from Saunders that for reasons nobody knew, Merchant was in a dirty, foul mood.

Literally the second I was in uniform, we got a call. And I made my biggest foul-up so far.

I still don't know exactly how it happened. I was supposed to put a ladder to a second floor window—a simple task. But there was a bush in exactly the wrong place for laddering that window. Plus, the ground where I ended up having to put the butt of the ladder was uneven with roots from a tree. Those are just observations—not excuses—because I still should have been able to get the ladder up, safely and correctly, on the first try. But instead, I somehow ended up putting the ladder _through_ the window, instead of _to_ the window, and thus inadvertently ventilated that room before it should've been ventilated. It was a stupid, stupid mistake.

Luckily, the error didn't cost lives, or cause injuries, or even much additional property damage, but it could have. I reported the inadvertent ventilation to the incident commander—the captain from the engine company that got there before us—right away, but it wasn't a mistake that could be fixed. I couldn't go un-break that window, and remove the air that had entered the structure.

Merchant watched impassively while Cap “debriefed” me about the mistake once we were back at the station. Cap chewed me out, as well he should have. He also made sure I learned from it, though. I demonstrated that I fully understood the second it happened what problems the error could have caused. I was able to give an explanation of what I could have done differently, given the difficult geometry of the location, to prevent the problem. Cap was satisfied with my response to the incident. But I still felt terrible—partly because I knew I'd screwed up, and partly because I'd disappointed Captain Sprague.

But Merchant wasn't satisfied. He gave me my own private debriefing, telling me in no uncertain terms what a fuck-up he thought I was, and how if I couldn't do a simple thing like that right, how could he trust me to be his partner, et cetera, et cetera. I was just so tired, and so downhearted, that I finally gave him what he wanted.

“Jesus Christ, Merchant! I know I fucked up. Cap already chewed me out. You were there. I get what I did wrong, and it won't happen again. What the fuck do you want from me?” I was face-to-chin with him, quivering with tension, and waiting to see what would happen next.

“Such a whining crybaby. Remember, on your first day, I told you to take it like a man? And the first time you make a big mistake—a doozy of a mistake, let me tell you—you freak out because your partner is pissed?” He shook his head. “Wow. What a girl.”

I couldn't win. If I walked away, I lost. If I talked back, I lost. I didn't need to win—I just needed to get the hell out of the conversation.

Naturally, since talking back and walking away were options that wouldn't get me anywhere, I did both.

I got right in his face. “Fuck you, Merchant. Just leave me the fuck alone, all right?” I turned to walk away.

He grabbed me by my shoulder and spun me around, slamming me into the rescue vehicle with a resounding “whang.” He held me pressed up against the side compartments without any apparent effort at all.

“Listen up, Probie,” he said, right in my ear. “Someday, you may be a barely adequate fireman, but not today. And from here on out, you'd better be in top form, because I'm gonna do everything I can to wash you out of this department. Starting today.”

As he walked away, he let go of me so fast that I stumbled forwards and fell flat on my face.

“Clumsy bitch,” he said, as he walked away. “You oughta just quit now, and run back home to your mommy. I don't want you here. You don't belong here. I don't wanna see your stupid face for the rest of the day, unless we're at a call.” He turned around and shouted at me one more time before he retreated into the bunk room. “You don't belong here,” he repeated.

I learned the next day that his old partner, Sellers, had attempted suicide the previous night.

~!~!~!~

The entire next month, save for one shift when Merchant was mercifully absent with a cold, was horrible. The pranks continued, and were more mean-spirited. Water bombs were one thing, because you could just let things dry. But when the bombs were no longer just water, I didn't make it through a single shift without having to change uniforms at least once, which meant I had laundry every day.

Merchant continued to berate me for every little thing he could think of. In public, he ignored me completely, unless he was yelling at me. In private, he started making constant jabs at me, and making constant veiled threats. I couldn't say anything without it being thrown back at me later, in private. He started pestering me relentlessly about my personal life, making a point about how someone who was so quiet must have something to hide.

He never got one more single reaction out of me. But by the end of that month, I was starting to wonder how the hell I was going to make it through my probie period. You were _expected_ to make mistakes in your probie year. That's why you had the orange helmet—so people who didn't know you would immediately know you were new. And like I said, I was expecting the grunt work, and I was expecting the hazing. But what was coming from Merchant was different—it wasn't just hazing, it was hatred. No, resentment. Anger. It was unfair, unjust, that his partner, who was also his best friend, couldn't do the job any more, and Merchant was angry, and I took the brunt of it.

He couldn't leave it at poking fun at my greenness, either. The more he learned about me, the more personal he got. Like when my sister, who's twelve years older than me, was visiting from the East Coast and came to see the station (even though I'd begged her not to), afterwards, he pointed out that I must have been an accident to be that much younger than my siblings. Never mind that I'd always assumed the same thing—I just didn't need him crowing about it. And I realized along the way that Merchant was extremely perceptive about human nature, and that I'd have to be really, really careful to keep a tight lid on anything that I didn't want him to come down on me like a ton of bricks for.

The other guys saw what was happening. I just politely asked them to stay out of it; that anything they did to try to help would probably just make it worse. They knew I was right. Cap called me into his office one day after overhearing a particularly nasty barrage of abuse from Merchant.

“Don't you think he's crossed that line, son? The one you said you'd tell me if he crossed?”

I sighed. “Yeah, Cap. He has. He's gotten personal, now. But honestly? I think anything you say to him is just going to make it worse. Because he'll assume I complained. It's just a couple more months at this point—and then I'll ask for a transfer once I get my black helmet. Because he won't quit then, and I know it.”

Captain Sprague studied me. “Personally, I'm more inclined to transfer him than you,” he said, after a minute. “Whoever replaced you would just get the same shit. What happened to Sellers was just life. What he did to himself after that—well, I can understand where he was coming from, just a little bit. And I hear he's starting to get his head back on straight, and get on with life. But I don't think Merchant is ever going to be able to let anyone take his place.”

I didn't say anything. I'd worked that out long ago, but of course it wasn't my place to say anything like that to Cap.

“You really wanna stick it out, Stoker?” he said, finally.

I nodded. “Doesn't look good on your resume if you transfer during your probie period. And, like I said, it's only a couple more months.”

He looked at me oddly. “I meant, Mike, do you want me to transfer him now?”

“Oh,” I said, dumbly. “I … don't know. I wish you hadn't asked me, to be honest—I don't want to be responsible for that kind of decision.”

Captain Sprague sighed. “You're right. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have asked. It has to happen at some point. But I'll leave you out of it, as I should have in the first place.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“By the way, Mike. You're doing a great job. You're the third probie I've had since becoming a captain, and I've honestly never had less trouble. Sure, you make mistakes, but you usually know what they are as soon as you make them, and you learn from them and move on. I just wish things could've been different for you here.”

My heart swelled in my chest—just a little, but enough that I knew for sure I could make it through whatever the next few months would bring. “Thanks, Cap.”

~!~!~!~

I didn't think there was any possible way to change the dynamic between me and Merchant, so I stopped even thinking about it as a possibility. I could understand his anger—I really could. There were certainly times that I was so angry about certain things that the universe had dealt me, personally, that I wanted to behave just like he did. But that was the difference between us. I didn't do it. I just accepted the cards I'd been dealt, and left it at that.

I was so sure there was no way to change the dynamic that when it happened, I didn't even recognize it at first.

It was at one of those fires where you know—you just _know_ —something's going to go wrong. It was one of those grand old houses that had been split up into apartments. Those were the worst—you never knew what was behind the walls. There were ways to split a building up that left paths for fire to follow—almost like an invitation to the flames: “Go here! Follow this space!” But you couldn't tell from looking. Maybe someday someone would invent a way to look through a wall to see where there was heat on the inside, but we didn't have it yet.

So when Merchant and I were doing a search in a smoke-filled second floor room, and the ceiling suddenly gave way, I was shocked, but not surprised, if that makes any sense. The fire was supposedly only on the first floor, but had obviously traveled up through air spaces in the walls, up to a nasty space between the second-floor ceiling and the rafters above. Obviously, I couldn't see the details of the structure at that point, but I heard later that it was a ceiling collapse waiting to happen.

As soon as the sounds of the collapse stopped, I could hear Merchant. He groaned, and then was silent.

I crawled over to where I thought I'd heard Merchant. I couldn't see a thing, not even right down on the floor where the air was as good as it could be, because the collapse had stirred up the thermal layering in the room, and the better air, down low, had gotten mixed up with the terrible air by the ceiling.

I found him, and miraculously, the coat pocket where he had our team's HT was accessible. I grabbed the radio, and called command, while feeling for what the situation was with my other hand.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Merchant is down, hit by debris from a ceiling collapse, middle room on the Charlie side, second floor.”

I got nothing back. I felt the radio, and realized the antenna was just plain gone. I shoved the HT in my pocket, for no good reason. I continued to try to get a feel for what kind of debris Merchant was entangled in. I could hear the crackle of flames above me, and behind me, and I knew I had maybe a minute to get us out of that room. Maybe less.

“Fuck!” I swore. “Merchant?”

I felt up and down his body, and finally realized that there was a second miracle—he wasn't entrapped at all. I could tell he was still alive, from the hiss of the regulator at every slow breath. He must have been knocked out cold to be breathing like that—I was panting at triple his rate. And to make things worse, my low air alarm started going off.

Whoever designed that thing was a genius. The alarm actually vibrates your mask, so there's no way you can miss it. I got the message—two minutes, at the rate I was breathing, and I'd be out of air. Out of life.

I didn't have time to think. The room was getting hotter and hotter, so that even down on the floor, I could feel the intensity of the heat. I made a mental picture of the room we were in, and took the one chance I'd have to get us out of there. If I was wrong about where the door was, that'd be it. I undid the waist strap of Merchant's air pack, and sent the strap between his legs to make a harness so I wouldn't pull the pack off him when I dragged him by its shoulder straps. I lengthened the waist strap all the way, and was just barely able to refasten it. I grabbed Merchant by the shoulder strap of his air pack, and dragged him to where I hoped, prayed, the door was.

It was there.

I manhandled over three hundred pounds of man and gear out the door, and slammed it shut. I was breathing so hard I knew I'd run out of air soon—I was burning through the air double time now.

I dragged him over to where I hoped the stairs still were. They were still there—at least the top stair was. I dragged him down, step by step, till I found a landing. It was a tight space—I struggled to turn Merchant so that I could keep dragging him down. The vibrating of my face piece was stopping between breaths now—that meant the air that powered the vibration was running out.

At the bottom of the stairs, I dug through my spatial memory of what the first floor looked like, and started dragging my partner to where I thought we'd come in. I found a charged hose on the floor, leading me either towards the door, if I went the right way, or towards the fire, if I chose wrong. And as I was trying to think, my mask stopped vibrating. No more positive pressure. I had an empty bottle. It felt like the bottle was sucking the air out of me, instead of the other way around.

They'd taught us not to panic—your instinct is to rip the mask off your face, and breathe whatever shit is out there, rather than suck your mask against your face at every breath. One breath of the heated, toxic air might not kill me right away, but it would in a couple minutes, when my burned airway swelled up, and my scorched lungs filled with fluid. So I kept sucking that mask against my face at every useless, reflexive inhalation, and not getting one more molecule of air.

I listened to my surroundings—I thought I could hear an engine to my right. So I hauled, knowing my life depended on it. I hauled again—I moved him a foot or two more. I felt the world starting to fade away, as I hauled one more time. If I'd been able to see, my vision would've been closing in on the edges. But I couldn't see. I could only hear, a rush of static. I could only feel, hands and feet going numb. But I kept my hand on the strap, and kept my feet on the floor, and hauled one more time.

Then, I wasn't sure if I was really falling, or if I was asphyxiating. Maybe passing out from lack of oxygen just _felt_ like falling. But it felt like my feet came out from under me, and a huge weight pressed me to the ground. And that was all I knew anymore.

~!~!~!~

My teeth were buzzing, and my head was filled with static. I could see again, but wasn't sure what I was seeing. My chest hurt, my legs hurt, and my right arm felt like somebody had tried to rip it off. Somebody was holding something against my face—now I remembered! I was suffocating, out of air! I pushed frantically at whatever was on my face, trying to get it away so I could breathe again.

I panicked as my hands were restrained, and fought back as hard as I could.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Mike, you're all right—you're out of the building, you're safe, this is just oxygen!”

The tunnel that was obstructing my vision slowly opened up, and the buzzing in my teeth faded, and the static cleared from my ears. I breathed in the oxygen, savoring the metallic taste imparted by the canister, and slowly came back to myself, and recognized Abbott in front of me.

As I suddenly remembered, really _remembered_ , what had just happened, I ripped the mask off my face.

“Merchant!” I shouted. It came out as a croak.

“He's right here. Look,” said Abbott, pointing to my left, where Saunders was finishing pressing a gauze bandage onto a gash on Merchant's forehead. He had an oxygen mask over his face, which meant he probably wasn't dead. Plus, he was still bleeding—another good sign. “The ambulance is on its way,” Abbott said.

I cleared my throat, and tried to explain that I didn't need to go to the hospital.

“No arguing,” Abbott said, even though I knew hadn't said anything intelligible.

Another figure appeared in front of me. White stripe on his helmet. Was it my Cap, or someone else's?

“Stoker,” he said. Yep, my Cap.

I mimed the ceiling coming down on top of us.

“Ceiling came down, huh?”

I nodded. I coughed, and tried to say something, but nothing came out.

“You call for help when that happens next time, all right?” Cap said. “We saw the second floor rooms start to flash over, and nobody knew what room you two were in.”

I searched for my coat—it was on the ground next to me. Right on top of my SCBA with the completely empty air bottle. I pulled out the antenna-less HT, and handed it to him.

“Shit,” he said.

I nodded. I looked back over at Merchant, who was starting to stir. Saunders dug his knuckles into Merchant's chest, and shouted his name, trying to get a response. Merchant groaned, and weakly tried to shove Saunders away. That was good enough, apparently, because Saunders let him be.

Cap looked back at me. “You guys landed in a heap at the bottom of those steps, there,” he said, pointing to the eight concrete steps that led to the front door. “Only way we could tell who was the victim and who was the rescuer was by how you had him packaged up, 'cause you were both out cold. Now think hard, Mike—did you pass out from running out of air, or did you knock your head on the way down?”

I tapped the air bottle next to me, and made a swiping motion across my throat.

“Okay. That's what I thought, considering your face and eyes look like a giant squid tried to suck them right off your head.”

That was a comforting thought. That's about what it felt like, though.

I turned to look at Merchant again. He was trying to sit up, and Saunders was trying to hold him down.

“The probie! Get the probie out!” Merchant yelled.

“He's out, Merchant. He's out! Everyone's fine,” said Saunders.

Merchant grabbed his head. “Fuck,” he said. “Just—fuck. What the hell happened? I have no idea.”

“Ceiling came down on you, John,” Cap said.

“No, it didn't,” Merchant said. “I'd remember that. Plus, we never went up to the second floor.”

I was too tired to participate in this debate. I decided to just lie back, and let Cap take care of it.

“You did, John. You radioed in that you and Stoker were searching the second floor, and you called in again to say you were moving to the back of the building.”

Merchant stared at Cap. “I don't remember,” he said dully.

“I saw the second floor rooms starting to flash over,” said Cap, “and we couldn't get you guys on the radio. I was just getting Abbott and Saunders packed up to go look for you guys when the two of you tumbled down the stairs by the front door.”

“I don't remember,” Merchant said again. “Is that how I got knocked out?”

“No,” Cap said calmly. “You were out cold already.”

“But—” I could hear confusion and disbelief in Merchant's voice. “But how did I get the probie out if I was out cold?” he asked.

I laughed—or at least, I tried to, but I ended up gagging instead.

“And what's the matter with him?” Merchant demanded, looking at me. He was starting to sound more like himself.

“Near as I can tell from how he had you packaged up,” Cap said patiently, “he dragged you out, all the way from the second floor, while he was breathing nothing out of an empty air bottle. He wasn't breathing at all, when Abbott finally got you off him and pried the mask off his face.”

I gulped. I'd missed that part.

“But—”

“But nothing, John. Now just lie down, and rest. The ambulance is here, and you two have a free ticket to Rampart.”

I remembered getting put on the gurney, but then that was it. Even though I could never sleep in the car when I was a kid, I guess an ambulance was a different story, because the next thing I knew, I wasn't moving any more, and somebody was saying my name.

“Mike?” the deep voice repeated.

I opened my eyes, and discovered that in my mental absence, I'd been stripped, and somehow got an IV in my arm. I hated hospitals, but it didn't seem like there was any doubt where I was. I still had an oxygen mask on my face, but I didn't try to fight it this time.

“I'm Dr. Benson. You're at Rampart, in the Emergency Room. You're going to be fine, all right?”

I nodded. My throat felt tight and heavy, and I knew I still wouldn't be able to make a sound.

“You had a really close call. Do you know what happened?”

I nodded again, and then made a shrugging gesture and pointed to my throat.

“You can't talk because your vocal cords are swollen. You were trying so hard to suck air out of that empty bottle that you sucked fluid into your tissues. But all that will pass soon. We're going to keep you here overnight, just to make sure you don't have any more airway swelling, and that you don't develop any fluid in your lungs. Okay?”

I nodded. There was no point in arguing. Plus, I felt like shit.

“Your partner is fine, too. In fact, he's better off than you, since he didn't quite run out of air. He has a nasty concussion, and needed a couple of stitches in his hard head, but he's fine.” Benson looked down at me. “You're quite the hero, right now, from what I hear from the guys in the lobby.”

I shook my head. That was ridiculous. You don't leave people behind. You just don't.

“He'd be over three hundred pounds, with all his gear. You apparently pulled him quite a long way. You should expect to be fairly sore from that.”

I believed him on that count. I already could hardly move my right arm, and my legs felt like I'd run a marathon. I was too tired to try to ask him any questions, so I just closed my eyes again.

~!~!~!~

A hand shook my shoulder gently, and I tried to shrink away and just go back to sleep.

“Jesus, lady. Do you have to wake him up again?”

“Sorry, Mr. Merchant, I do. I have orders to wake the both of you up, every hour, to make sure you're still okay in the brains department,” said a strong feminine voice. “Mr. Stoker?”

Was my dad here? Last I heard, he didn't want much to do with me. Or maybe it was Uncle Frank?

I opened my eyes to check.

Oh. She meant me.

“Yep,” I croaked.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital. No air. Fine, though. Jus' lemme sleep, all right?”

“See?” said Merchant. “He's fine. Can you let him rest?”

I felt cool hands on my arm, where something was sticking out of it unnaturally. Oh yeah, the IV. I didn't care. I closed my eyes again.

~!~!~!~

The next time I woke up—unless I'd missed a few times, which was possible—food was being brought into the room. Eggs, it smelled like. Breakfast?

I opened my eyes, and there was a woman in the room, swinging a table over Merchant's bed.

“Look, he's awake,” Merchant said.

So I was, it seemed. I took a quick inventory—my throat didn't seem nearly as tight and heavy, but my right arm felt like it was frozen, or on fire, or maybe both. In any case, I decided not to move it.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Stoker?”

I coughed experimentally, and tried to fire up the old voice box. “Better,” I said. Sound came out adequately this time.

“Do you think you can eat some breakfast?”

I had a dilemma.

“Uh, I gotta … um …”

“Do you need to get to the bathroom?”

I nodded.

“Okay. I'm going to help you sit up, and then you can stand up and see if you feel steady.”

I managed—though my legs felt like they'd hardly hold me up.

“Good. I'll just disconnect this IV, and I'll wait for you. Pull the cord if you need help. No macho bullshit, either.” I appreciated women who could swear.

I made it to the bathroom, and did what I needed to do. At the sink, I nearly fell backwards when I saw my reflection. The whites of both of my eyes were completely red. My face had splotchy red dots all over it. With my blue irises blazing out from a sea of blood, I looked like some kind of alien. I remembered what Cap had said about my looking like a giant squid had tried to suck my face off. That seemed just about right.

I finished in the bathroom, feeling much better, and made it back to the bed. I cleared my throat, and asked the obvious question. “What's with the eyes?”

“Blood vessels rupture in the covering of your eyeball when you're asphyxiating,” she said simply. “Plus, you were sucking your face mask onto your face when you were inhaling. That probably made it worse.”

“Oh.”

“It'll go away soon. But Halloween's right around the corner—you can have some fun with it then.”

“Great.”

The nurse swung a table over my legs, too, and left me and Merchant to our breakfasts.

We ate in silence for a minute or two. I had no idea what to say to Merchant, and he clearly had no idea what to say to me. But he got there first.

“How the hell did you even do it, Stoker?”

It was the first time he'd ever called me by my name. “I don't know. I just did.”

He stared at me. “Thanks, man.”

“Any time,” I said. And I meant it.

~!~!~!~

I didn't need an apology from Merchant.

I got one, anyhow. Just not the kind you say with words.

When we were back to work, two shifts later for him, four for me, it was like all of a sudden he was a different person. Not really—I mean, he still cussed a blue streak, and stalked around the station like a lion on steroids, and generally made it impossible for people to ignore him. But suddenly, he wasn't the enemy any more.

There were no more pranks, and no more purposely-created dirty jobs. I still got the grunt work, but that was the way it was supposed to be. And, more to the point, whenever there was something going on that I hadn't seen before, Merchant explained it, and showed me what to do.

About a week after I was back, Cap called Merchant into his office, and they were in there for a long time. There were no raised voices, which was the exception rather than the rule for that combination behind closed doors.

Cap called me in later, and said he'd discussed things with Merchant, and that he wasn't going to require him to transfer, but that I would be granted a transfer when my probationary period was over in six weeks if I wanted that. I said no thanks.

Even though I still had six weeks to go as a probie, I had my name back, at least partly. Merchant and Cap didn't call me “Probie” any more. Foster still did, always, and the other guys alternated between “Probie” and “kid” and occasionally “Mike.”

But to Merchant, I was now “Stoker.” Except when he called me “Partner.”


	6. Roy: A Whole New Ball Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parenthood changes everything.

Chapter 6

Roy: A Whole New Ball Game

 

I was just finishing some scutwork, which we seemed to have an endless supply of, when I was hailed in an unexpected way for an unanticipated break.

“DeSoto!” Williams bellowed from the day room. “Phone!”

It was so unusual for someone to address me by my name, and not by the tiresome nickname “Probie,” that I almost didn't realize at first that he was talking to me.

I propped the mop against the wall in the apparatus bay and went to pick up the phone.

Williams held his hand over the receiver, looking at me suspiciously. “Some woman,” he said. “ _Not_ your wife.”

Ah. That's why he used my name. That was pretty considerate, actually. The guys knew I was working on getting a mortgage, so Joanne and I could buy a house to accommodate what would soon be a family instead of just a couple. So he must have been _thinking_ for a change. I mentally slapped myself on the wrist as I walked into the day room—Williams isn't dumb; just sometimes a little inconsiderate, or oblivious.

I picked up the phone, expecting to hear Mrs. Emerson from the bank.

“Hello, this is Roy DeSoto.”

“Roy? It's Suzanne from next door.” She sounded a bit breathless, which had me worried.

“Suzanne—is everything okay?” Once she and her family figured out I was a fireman (or _almost_ a fireman; civilians never really understood the part about the probationary period, so it wasn't worth explaining), someone from their household was knocking on our apartment door once a week or so. I was always nice about it, but you don't need a fireman to turn off the circuit breaker to remove a broken lightbulb, or to pull a splinter from a child's finger. Or, I should say, you shouldn't need one. But some people, as I was learning even in the early days of my job, apparently do. I turned my attention back to the phone conversation.

“Well—yes. Joanne's in labor. It's a little early, but it's definitely happening. So I'm taking her to the hospital, and you need to meet us there.”

I sighed. “Suzanne, she's been thinking she's in labor every day for the last week. Are you sure?”

I got my answer, and I deserved how I got it, too. “Listen up, buster. I've given birth three times, and what's your count? Zero? Yeah, that's about right. Your wife's in labor—trust me. And it doesn't look like that kid is wasting any time, either. Meet us at Rampart, and I'd recommend you make it snappy.” She hung up.

Shit, shit; oh shit oh shit oh shit!!!

I stood there by the phone, hands trembling. This wasn't supposed to happen for three weeks! I wasn't ready! Joanne wasn't ready! The apartment wasn't ready! I had to stop this, somehow.

Oh. Wait. I couldn't. That's right.

Williams tapped me on the shoulder, and I jumped a foot in the air.

“Wife think she's in labor again, huh? You think maybe it's the real thing this time?”

I stood there dumbly for a moment. “Uh …”

He shook his head, and grinned. “I guess that's a 'yes,' huh?” He stuck his head into the apparatus bay and in the direction of Cap's office.

“Cap?” he shouted.

“For the millionth time, Williams, come in here if you want to talk to me,” Captain Brock said.

Williams grabbed me by the arm and dragged me along with him to the office. I just stood there with my mouth open.

“What's going on, boys?” Cap asked.

“Probie's about to be a papa,” Williams said succinctly.

“Well?” Cap said. “What are you waiting for? Shoo! Call us when the tyke is out. Good luck to you and Joanne, DeSoto.”

Williams reached under my jaw and poked it shut with his index finger. That snapped me out of my shock.

“Uh, yessir! The neighbor lady is sure she's in labor. She has three kids. She would know,” I babbled. “I, uh, won't be back today—I guess I need a sub. And the next four shifts, like we talked about. And I'm sorry—there's nothing I can do to stop it! Shit, shit, shit!”

“Listen to that, Cap—our probie _can_ swear after all!” Williams said. “C'mon, daddy; let's get you out the door.”

~!~!~!~

I wasn't really sure whether or not it was a good idea that they'd started sometimes letting fathers into the delivery room. I mean, it was _probably_ a good thing—I guess. I mean, it's 1967, for crying out loud, not 1467, so I guess it's good that it was all getting demystified.

The nurse showed me into the room where Joanne was. She looked sweaty and flushed, but was up and walking around, a nurse at her elbow.

“Took you long enough,” she snapped.

I was about to point out that it was forty-five minute drive from my station to the hospital, but I decided just to keep my mouth shut.

“Sorry, Honey,” I said. I took her hand. “How are you doing?”

“Except for the meat grinder having its way with my insides every two minutes or so, just peachy,” she said.

It didn't look _that_ bad, I thought. I held onto her hand as she walked towards the bed, and was about to say something mild and comforting when I found my arm nearly being yanked out of its socket, as she doubled over, putting her elbows on the bed, forgetting to let go of me as she did so.

A sound came out of her that I couldn't identify, and I was relieved when it came to an end. But after she got a breath in, which didn't look easy, the sound that had made me uncomfortable was replaced by a genuine scream of agony, which stopped me in my tracks.

The nurse held her up—fortunately, since I wasn't doing a bit of good—until the contraction subsided and Joanne leaned on the bed, panting.

“Good, Joanne; good,” the nurse said. She practically shoved me down into a chair. “Remember, every contraction gets you closer to holding that baby.”

“I don't _care_ about holding it. I want this thing OUT, and I want it out NOW!” Joanne said.

 _Thing?_

“Honey,” I said, about to offer up some wise words.

“Shut up!” Joanne said. “Whatever you're about to say, just _shut_ _up_!”

I shut up.

She breathed for another thirty seconds or so, and then the whole thing happened again.

I'd heard other people screaming before. The first time I was at a car wreck, and heard an injured person screaming, and then saw the blood, and the … well, things you're not supposed to see, I passed right out. The second time, I felt faint, but was a little better prepared. The third time, when we pulled an unconscious man with burned legs out of a fire, and he regained consciousness after we gave him oxygen, and then started screaming in agony while we waited uselessly for the ambulance, I still felt sick to my stomach, but was able to help hold his hands down so he didn't rip the much-needed oxygen mask off his face in his agony.

It sounds horrible, but I'd gotten used to seeing people in pain. Realized that if I wasn't able to control my own reactions, I wouldn't be able to help them.

But my own wife?

That was different.

Not only was she my wife—the woman I'd been in love with, whether I understood it or not, since we were kids—but there wasn't a thing I could do for her. Not a _thing_.

And, as she pointed out once the contractions started coming practically on top of each other, with hardly any breaks in between, _I'd_ done this to her. And it was going on, and on, and on. I had to step out into the hallway at one point, tears in my eyes, but I went right back in.

I looked imploringly at the nurse. “Isn't there something—?”

She shook her head. “It's too late for an epidural—she's going to be pushing soon, and that goes better if you can tell when you need to push, and tell how well you're pushing.”

“But aren't there drugs … I don't even know,” I said, feeling useless.

“There are—but whatever mom gets, baby gets, and Joanne decided she doesn't want that. She can change her mind any time.”

“Honey?” I said to Joanne imploringly.

“No! Just …” she couldn't speak again; not for a minute or so. “Shit—I have to push!”

“All right. Let's get you in the bed,” the nurse said.

I helped with that—at least that was something I could do.

Forty-five minutes later, with a grand total of ten minutes of actual doctor time, our son took his first breath, which was immediately followed by powerful squalling. The instant I held him, the instant I looked into his tiny, scrunched-up dark blue eyes, I knew that nothing in my world would ever be the same again. Ever.

People had told me that, and I'd understood in theory what they meant. But I didn't really get it, not really, until I held my son for the first time.

~!~!~!~

Ten days later, the household had settled into some kind of routine. Joanne's mother, firmly ensconced in a hotel, was helping during the days. I tried to make myself useful when I could, and scarce when I couldn't. Our mortgage came through, with perfectly awful timing, the day Joanne got home from the hospital with Chris. I realized, when we started to make appointments to look at houses, that there would be one glaring disadvantage to having a larger living space: my mother in law could stay at the house.

It was with a combination of relief (to be away from HER), and sadness (to be away from Chris and Joanne) that I returned to work, after four shifts off. I was glad, for the first time ever, of HER presence—it meant that Joanne wouldn't be alone during the twenty-four hours (ten diapers, eight feedings and burpings, probably two or so total hours of crying, though at times it seemed like much more) that I would be away.

On my first shift back, I brought in and showed off the baby pictures. The guys without kids looked and commented politely; the guys with kids had a different look in their eyes as they congratulated me. I'd never noticed that before—that difference.

My first shift as a new dad passed without incident. I was sure, just _sure_ , that the first shift would be filled with disasters and tragedies involving children—babies, really. But it wasn't—it was an ordinary, run-of-the-mill shift, with alarm activations, service calls, a minor car accident, a diesel spill, and a dumpster fire. And a guy who ended up with his arm stuck in a downspout while trying to clean out a clog of leaves and those twirly maple helicopter thingies that had sprouted and plugged it up. Why he thought his arm would work better than a broomstick is beyond me.

I came home the morning after my first shift back exhausted but glad to be back, and was delighted to hold Chris for a while so Joanne could take a nap while SHE went grocery shopping. SHE made me take a shower before I could touch HER grandchild, even though I'd just taken one at the station (which according to HER must be filled with mildew and fungus, since it's used and cleaned only by men, even though I knew perfectly well it was a lot cleaner than the shower in our apartment).

It was during my second shift back that we had our first post-Chris child rescue. It really hit me, then—I really understood it—the terror of parents when their child is in danger. It was a fairly simple affair—the child had fallen into the foundation of a new house that was being built. He wasn't badly hurt, but couldn't get out, and there were no ladders about, so it was up to us.

I could see the child wasn't badly hurt—he probably had a broken wrist—but he was young enough that it was frightening for him to be alone and in pain in the still-open basement of the new house. Luckily, it was a two-minute rescue—literally. Pete Jenkins carried him up the ladder and handed him to his mother, who whisked him off to the emergency room to get his arm looked at. But for the first time, I understood the look in the mother's eye, both before Jenkins got her son up the ladder, and after. Like I said—I knew nothing would be the same for me, ever again.

I was glad to have that first child-related incident out of the way. I knew there would be others—and ones that were worse. A lot worse. I tried not to think about those, even harder than I did before.

The thing that I _wasn't_ prepared for happened on my third shift back.

The tones dropped at three a.m. We were headed for a structure fire at an industrial complex, where the night shift was working, and there were multiple people missing. Our engine was assigned to be the middle pump in a water relay—we had to use some hydrants nearly half a mile away, because the water main near the factory was already maxed out by the two engines pumping directly off of it. The engineer dropped the rest of us, our tools, and the end of the supply line at the site, and headed down the road, laying out all the supply line we had on the way. _That_ was gonna be a pain in the ass to pack up later, when we were dead tired from what I was already sure would be hours and hours of firefighting and overhaul.

The battalion chief had me, my partner, and the two guys from the squad pack up and go in on a search and rescue assignment. I started putting on my gear, and checking the SCBA pack to make sure everything was right. I'd gone inside burning buildings before, about fifty times for practice, and twenty or so times for real—I'd lost count, but it was enough times that I'd quit crapping my pants—but this time, something was bothering me about it. I stood there, trying to process it, but it wasn't coming to me.

“Something wrong, Probie?” Williams asked.

I shook my head. “Let's go.”

I did my job, all the while with a nagging feeling that there was something _wrong_ about what I was doing. We found one of the missing men, under a desk in an office area, and dragged him out. We went back in, but didn't find anyone else in the smoke-filled rooms we'd been assigned to search.

As I exited the building, shut off my air, and removed the regulator from my face piece, it hit me what was different this time.

If I went into a building some time, and didn't come back, my son would grow up never knowing his father.

I sat down on the running-board of the engine to process what some part of me had figured out as I was masking up. My life wasn't just _mine_ anymore. I was responsible to my child, in a far deeper way than I was to Joanne. Not just to protect him from harm—though that was something I would think about every second of every day. But to be there for him. To _be_ for him.

In my job, there was a small but reasonable chance that I might not keep on _being_.

I sat there on the running board, far longer than was acceptable at an active scene, until Cap finally came over and sat down next to me.

“It just hit you, didn't it, son.”

I nodded. He was a father, so he understood perfectly.

“Take five, and then I need you to get back to it. Chief says it's under control, but we have a damned big overhaul job. We'll talk after we're all mopped up here. All right?”

I nodded again.

As I took my five minutes, I suddenly questioned my entire life. I loved my wife, and knew that the dangers of my job were hard on her. But she'd gotten used to it—or so she said. I wondered, sometimes, how much that was true. I knew, though, that she understood that there was no other job for me. Nothing else that would do it. I sometimes felt selfish—and I told her that. She told me she knew she couldn't ever understand my job, not completely, but that she _did_ understand that it was what I needed to do. I was damned lucky to have a wife who loved me enough—no, who _understood_ me enough—to accept that.

But a baby? That's a different story. Even a child who'd reached some age where reasoning was possible (and I didn't even have any idea what that age might be) couldn't be expected to understand that his father _chose_ to do a job where there was a chance he might not come home.

I loved my job.

I loved my child.

And I sure hoped Captain Brock had some damned wise words waiting for me, because I was lost.

 **The End.**

Or, just for this series,

~The Beginning~


End file.
